


Psychostasia

by theElement



Category: Death Parade (Anime), Psycho-Pass
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:19:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theElement/pseuds/theElement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"An unforeseen situation... an unexpected turn of events... in the face of those, you too will face your true self."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Nona, I’ve seen enough,” he said.

“No, you haven’t,” the telepathic voice promptly responded. “That was barely half of his condensed memory pool, and a fourth of the complete collection that Quin so generously cut down for you. How exactly do you expect to make an accurate decision based on a measly twenty-five percent of a human’s life history?”

“It’s funny you say that,” said Decim, “because I have never reached a firmer verdict based purely on memories. I don’t think I need to see another mutilated body or hear another pretentious remark to decide where this bastard is going.” No sooner had the words left his lips, than another lurid image of blade slashing throat assailed his mind’s eye. He winced, almost feeling the blood splatter onto his skin. “Is the game even necessary in this case?”

“Adherence to proper procedure is imperative, Decim.” Nona’s tone was uncompromising. “You are fully aware that criminal justice systems have a very different face in the twenty-second century, and that not all people are rightly brought to justice for their wrongdoings – or good deeds, for that matter. Our establishment is the last barrier between a life and the fate it ultimately deserves, and therefore our judgment must be of the absolute highest accuracy.”

“And what makes you think watching him playing a damn bar game is going to change my mind?”

Nona sighed impatiently. “Under normal circumstances, the purpose of the game is to draw out the darkness in a visitor’s soul, yes?”

“Right.”

“With him, the darkness is apparent. So in this case, I’d like you to think like a scientist, and try your best to create circumstances that would produce evidence to the contrary.”

Decim nodded weakly. “I see.”

“Don’t break any rules, Decim,” she warned. “I hope you still recognize that your tenure remains in review following your last misstep. There are posts in this tower to which I can demote you, that aren’t nearly as glamorous as the one you have now.”

He nodded again, even more weakly.

“And… that should be it. Best of luck, Decim.” The final bloodstained memory clicked shut like a TV being turned off, and a little digital blip sounded that indicated the end of the transmission. Decim stared into the lounge in front of him, feeling physically ill.

He’d never abhorred a client so intensely in his entire career as an Arbiter.

“Are you all right?” asked the black-haired woman by his side.

Decim didn’t respond immediately, but being reminded that she was there heartened him somewhat. He decided that he could enlist her assistance in the task of passing objective judgment on the incoming visitor, which would’ve been close to impossible by himself.

“At any moment now,” he said, “a monster is going to walk through that hallway and into Quindecim. I want you to keep an eye not only on him, but also on me. Make sure I maintain my… composure. And try, as difficult as it may be, to use your human instincts to find the slightest hint of redemption in the being of this cretin.”

“Monster? Cretin?” she chided. “I know you’re an Arbiter, but do you have to be so quick to judge?”

“You don’t know what I’ve seen.” Memories were not to be divulged, probably for the best.

“How bad can it be? In my time on Earth, I learned that everyone has some source of splendor in their soul, no matter how pitch-black it may seem,” she said, smiling encouragingly. 

“And in my time at Quindecim, I learned that the pitch-black side often wins. As I said…” Decim resisted telling her about the riots, the dismemberments, the human corpses turned to grotesque plastic sculptures. “You don’t know what I’ve seen.”

“Indeed, I don’t. But I know I’ve never seen you like this before. It’s unlike you, being so… involved.” She was silent for a second. “You don’t happen to know what he looks like, do you? So that I can prepare myself, and know what to expect?”

He didn’t know what to expect. Arbiters viewed memories from a first-person perspective, so he didn’t have a clear picture of his target’s appearance. He only had a name. “No,” he said, shaking his head gravely. “My guess is that he would look like a serial killer.”

“So… scruffy, aggressive, mentally unstable? Something like that?”

Before Decim could answer, Nona’s telepathy interrupted his thoughts. “Makishima Shougo is on his way up,” she said. “In the meantime, before I forget, here’s data from his opponent.”

* * *

“Is that him?” asked his assistant. “That can’t be him.”

Decim’s first instinct when he saw the man at the end of the hallway was in wholehearted agreement with her. In the last two minutes, he’d spent less mental energy processing the new set of memories being funneled into him than he did trying, with limited success, to piece together a convincing portrait of Makishima Shougo. He had come up with not much more than generic markers of insanity – crazy bloodshot eyes, dark greasy hair, scarred skin, grimy street clothes – and the smartly-dressed, porcelain-skinned, light-haired young man ambling leisurely down that hallway could not have possibly hewn further from that image. And yet, Decim’s judgment knew better. As little attention as he’d paid to the memories of Makishima’s soon-to-be competitor, he was dimly aware that they had belonged to a woman rather than a man, and while this visitor was feminine, he was undoubtedly male (although Decim didn’t know if his preconceptions of gender norms were more accurate than his preconceptions of serial killers). And furthermore, Decim had the vague notion that he seemed familiar. He wondered if this was another one of Nona’s tests.

The man was now close enough for Decim to register the strange yellow hue of his irises. The instant their eyes met sent a chill through him that removed all doubts of his target’s dangerousness. This man _was_ Makishima Shougo, the twisted and terrifying mass murderer who was capable of shocking atrocities and would likely wreak havoc on Quindecim if things weren’t handled properly…

“Hello there,” repeated Makishima. This time Decim snapped out of his preoccupations. “May I inquire as to where I am?”

Makishima’s voice was like Decim had heard in his memories – fluid and calm with a silvery edge, and much more characteristic of a cultured art school professor than a violent psychopath. But then again, Decim was beginning to question his likely outdated mental representation of psychopaths.

“Welcome to Quindecim,” said Decim, rattling off the protocol. “I am your bartender, Decim. Thank you for coming.”

“So this is a bar,” said Makishima, delighted. He sat down, crossing his legs comfortably and surveying his surroundings. “It’s very beautiful. It exudes a classical charm that most people in this age fail to appreciate, and I imagine I’d enjoy a conversation with the architect responsible.”

“Thank you,” said Decim. He had no other response. _What kind of person commented on the_ aesthetics _of Quindecim before questioning why they were there?_ Decim felt his ability to appropriately handle this case diminishing by the second, and was suddenly taken by the irrational fear of Nona storming in with a mouthful of lessons and a demotion decree. He glanced discreetly at his assistant, hoping she had picked up something he didn’t, and was more than a little annoyed to realize that she looked absolutely fascinated.

“Would you like something to drink?” she offered.

Makishima sighed. “I suppose it would be strange to order tea at a bar like yours. A glass of red wine, then.” He smiled disarmingly and extended a hand. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“I don’t remember,” she said, but took his hand anyway.

“Funny. I don’t, either.” His eyes twinkled as he turned her hand over in his. “But what’s in a name? ‘That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.’”

“Shakespeare, right?” she said, casually retracting her hand and heading to the back of the bar. “I liked that play, although I didn’t think both of them had to die. It seemed a little too much to me.”

“Ah, yes – had Juliet been more patient and less consumed by blind love, perhaps she would have survived,” he mused, as she tipped plum-colored alcohol carefully into a glass. “But would she have found meaning in life without Romeo, who was doomed to begin with?”

“That’s enough small talk,” said Decim flatly. “It’s time to get serious.” _Where on earth is that girl? This game is long overdue…_

“That’s right.” Makishima wrapped three fingers around the stem of the wine glass, and trained his eyes on Decim. “You did look like you had something awfully important to tell me.”

“Well…” _Nona, if this is a test, I fail. Just call it quits, for the love of God._

 _It’s not a test,_ he heard Nona reply. _He’s a real client. Do your job._

“I’m listening,” said Makishima.

Decim gathered his thoughts. “I have one important thing to ask you before proceedings begin,” he said. “Do you remember what you were doing before you arrived here?”

Makishima took a thoughtful sip of his drink. “Vaguely,” he said.

An alarm went off in Decim’s head. _Nona,_ he thought, panicking.

 _He’s bluffing,_ came the instant reply. _He doesn’t remember. I wiped his recent memory storage clean. But I’d consider being cautious; if he feels the need to bluff about this, he either suspects something, or he’s being very crafty from the get-go. That being said, people do have different rates of memory recovery._

“What _do_ you remember?” asked Decim.

“Well…” Makishima drew his lip inwards, recollecting. “I remember having a strange dream. I was in the middle of a small room stuffed full of human brains. The brains looked fresh out of the skull, soft and wet and stacked on top of each other. I realized I could hear sounds coming from those brains, and they were talking about me. In a fit of anger, I reached into my pocket for my razor.”

Decim was unwillingly reminded of many slit throats. If this was all made up, he sure had a vivid imagination…

“But before I could get to the brains,” continued Makishima, “they exploded, splattering me with blood and neural matter, staining my white clothes. That was where the dream ended. After that, I found myself in the elevator that led here, where I met a gentleman named Clavis, and realized that my razor had disappeared.” He paused briefly here, quietly contemplative. “I really liked that razor, and it’d be a shame if someone were to have taken it from me.”

Decim didn’t doubt that the tower staff had stripped Makishima of his weapons, as pointless as that really was. “Do you remember anything else?”

“That’s about the extent of my memory.”

There was a tense silence as Makishima brought the glass to his lips again. Decim waited almost agonizingly, but it didn’t come. There was no panic, no questioning, no attempts at escape – only a chillingly ominous calm. He looked at his assistant again, and even she now looked unsure of what to do. Decim felt oddly disappointed, and began to see a little truth in what Ginti said about the entertainment value of watching clients freak out and stumble through their ignorance.

Then he heard what sounded like hurried footsteps echoing down the hallway, and almost breathed a sigh of relief.

“Looks like you have company,” said the black-haired woman to Makishima with a little grin.

A young, small-framed brunette wearing an oversized teal jacket ran hastily towards them. “Sorry I’m late,” she panted, almost tripping on an elevated step. She took a moment to catch her breath. “Are you… Decim?”

“Yes,” said the bartender. “Welcome to Quindecim.”

“Thank god – I was told by Clavis to look for you, on the elevator. Nice to meet you. My name is – ” She halted. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as her memory failed her.

“Don't worry. It’s not an uncommon occurrence in these parts,” assured the woman behind the bar.

Her words came half a second too late; a pair of amber eyes had already narrowed.

“The first instance – well, I didn’t particularly mind being nameless,” said Makishima. “The second – ” he motioned to her with a brief lift of the chin – “perhaps a charming coincidence. But a third case of anomic aphasia in the exact same room?” He planted his glass onto the bar with a deliberate clink. “That gives me enough reason to be suspicious.”

Finally, Decim detected an appropriate point of entry for his spiel. “Well, now that you’re both here, I can finally explain the situation you have been placed in,” he said.

 _“Hitooo-tsu!”_ chimed in his assistant, enthused by the rolling of the familiar ball.

“I cannot tell you where you are right now.”

“Other than a bar named Quindecim,” pointed out the female guest. “I do have that much information.”

The black-haired woman ignored her. _"Futaaa-tsu!"_

“You will be playing a game against each other.”

“A game?” A half-smile appeared on the corner of Makishima’s pale lips, and his voice brimmed with barely contained amusement. “You’re appealing to my playful sensibilities here, Decim.”

“Don’t get too excited,” muttered Decim.

_"Mittsu!"_

“Your game will be decided by roulette.” The board appeared behind him effortlessly.

“Hmmm… this isn’t Club Exoset, is it?” asked the young woman. “I don’t know another place in the city where gambling hasn’t already been outlawed.”

“I do not know what you are referring to,” answered Decim, although he suspected he did.

“Gambling is a major risk factor for – ”

_"Yottsu!"_

“You will risk your lives in this game.”

Makishima was positively beaming. “I like this place. I'd love to participate.”

“Wait a minute! You’re not even going to ask me?” protested the young woman. “He said _against each other_. If I don’t want to risk my life, you don’t get to.” She shook her head in disbelief. “If this is some sort of arthouse isolation facility,” she mumbled to herself, “I wouldn’t even know what to think anymore.”

 _Finally, some semblance of normalcy has returned to this job,_ thought Decim.

_"Itsutsu!"_

“You cannot leave this place until the game is over and one of you has won.”

“Very well,” said Makishima. “What do you say, miss?” 

“If I just refuse to play…” Her forehead was knotted in thought. “Would it be possible to claim automatic loss and concede the victory to you? I don’t mind – I’m not all that competitive.” She looked at Decim. “What would happen if I did that?”

“I would not recommend it,” said Decim gravely. “But if you want, I can show you.” The shelves behind him split apart like sliding doors, revealing his highly prized mannequin collection that he knew most people mistook for hapless defectors who were slaughtered and hung.

The young woman’s eyes widened in horror, taken by the ruse. The more perceptive Makishima looked at the mannequins curiously, and was abruptly struck by a familiarity about them, and in turn, a vivid memory:

> _He slams the heavy mechanical appliance down repeatedly on the android’s head, ripping through the flimsy artificial skin and crushing its skull. A green bionic fluid spills liberally from the cracks where the protective layers have given way. The cyborg’s face is now a pathetic skeleton of mangled metal, completely devoid of the humanity it had attempted to feign. Frantic eyes bulge from their naked sockets, and he hears Touma Kouzaburou beg for his life. It fills him with unspeakable contempt._
> 
> _“Are you afraid of death, even after obtaining the omniscience of God?” he whispers._

He blinked, realizing that the mannequins were once again concealed, and the rest of the group was awaiting his response. Casting Decim with a steely glare, he said, “Forgive my rudeness, but I sincerely hope you aren’t another one of Sibyl’s puppets, sent to sell me on a lost cause through some bizarrely deceptive maneuver.” 

Decim shook his head. “You are mistaken. Quindecim is not affiliated with the Sibyl System.”

“Not affiliated with Sibyl… do you mean we’re not in Japan?” questioned the brunette. Decim was reminded of the analytical nature of her memories. “And what do you mean, Sibyl’s _puppets_?” she asked Makishima, who only smirked.

“I cannot answer that,” Decim said simply.

She nodded. “I understand. My guess is that you’re a criminal, and you’ve kidnapped me and brought me where your actions will be out of range for judgment.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll play the game,” she said, eyes resolute but lower lip trembling, her opponent noted. “If you promise to answer my questions when it’s over.”

“As will I,” Makishima agreed. “If you promise not to interfere.”

Hesitantly, Decim gave his assistant the signal. The large panels in front of the players began to flash and glow, producing an almost comical sound more befitting for a game show. After a few seconds, the bottom left panel turned over clunkily, revealing a terribly drawn picture of a toy gun followed by an overly enthusiastic announcement from the black-haired woman:

“DEATH SHOOTING RANGE!” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Since I began writing this story around the time episode 7 aired, consider the events in this chapter and onward as divergent from canon and extrapolating from episode 9 – which means, in this timeline, Chiyuki’s name and memories are not recovered, and she remains an indefinitely unjudged human who continues to serve as Decim’s assistant throughout the twenty-second century.

Immediately, a shattering explosion tore away the concrete floor and wall that formed the right wing of Quindecim, hurling a blast of scorching air at the two unsuspecting players and nearly knocking them over. As usual, the black-haired woman flinched, and then sighed in frustration at the utter inefficiency. Decim casually ducked from the flying debris; this was one aspect of the game which, as inconvenient as it was to go through and put back together, was just too beautifully dramatic for him to ever consider giving up. 

When the dust finally cleared, Makishima and his opponent could vaguely discern two large targets positioned about 20 meters away from them. Three-dimensional and humanoid, the targets looked eerily lifelike from a distance, save for the lack of facial features. Positional markings of internal organs and their corresponding scores covered the surface of each figure, and glowing red cores pulsed steadily at the centers of their heads. 

“I will now explain the rules,” said Decim. “You will each have three chances to shoot at your respective target. The amount of points you can earn with each shot depends on where you aim. As you can see, point values of different body parts have been designated based on the degree of damage a bullet would incur in a real-life person – ten on average for the limbs, thirty for the torso, fifty for the heart, and sixty for the center of the head, which is the maximum amount of points you can earn in a single round. The person who scores the most points at the end of the third round will be the winner.” He paused briefly, anticipating questions or fear but getting only silence. “My assistant will now provide you with your guns,” he said. 

The black-haired woman stepped forward with a tray containing two handguns, one pearl black and one platinum silver. Almost instinctively, the younger woman clasped the black gun in both hands, holding it gingerly out in front of her before realizing how rude she seemed. “I’m more used to this,” she said hurriedly, embarrassed at her impulsivity. “It feels and weighs like a Dominator. It just feels like it’s for me, that’s all.” 

“That’s not a problem,” said Makishima, twirling the silver pistol in his hand. “I quite like this one, myself.” He glanced at Decim curiously. “Will that be all?” 

“What do you mean?” asked Decim. 

“Am I to assume there are no catches to such a fantastical competition as this?”

Decim hesitated. He could no longer keep his plan from the players, and he was practically certain his assistant would disapprove. “There is one more aspect to the game,” he admitted. “You will be playing in linkage mode. This means that any damage you inflict on your target will cause pain in the corresponding area of your opponent.” 

Sure enough, the black-haired woman shot him a resentful look. Since she’d begun helping with cases, she had never approved of the use of physical or mental torment, and, over time and many harrowing experiences, had grown completely opposed to Decim’s tried and true method of “testing the soul”. Decim had indeed dialed back the aggravation over the years by her insistence, but was never able to fully let go of his belief that a person’s true nature only showed itself in desperation. In harder cases, he often found himself claiming the authority to revert to his old methods, much to her disappointment and ultimate resignation. And he had no doubt this was a hard case for which to make a decision unclouded by the humanesque empathy that plagued and fettered him. 

He watched lips quiver and eyebrows raise as he said those words, and knew that judgment had irrevocably been set into motion. 

“Well,” said the woman with a nervous laugh, “M-maybe we can just shoot each other’s hands and legs and try to win by doing that, right, Mister?” 

“We could,” replied Makishima. “But I’m sure you may imagine the tedium of such a discourse. If we are to play a game, it should be exciting. After all, ‘the great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.’” 

His opponent nodded quietly. “I will do what I think is right,” she said. 

“You will now flip a coin to decide who goes first,” said Decim, offering a small blue disk etched with the faces of the two guests. 

“Go ahead,” the woman said. “I got the gun first, so you can have the honors this time.” 

“Very well.” The coin glittered as it rested on the edges of Makishima’s fingernails. He smiled. “Shall we begin?”

* * *

“Excuse us for a second,” said the black-haired woman, and pulled Decim aside with surprising force. 

“I already know there’s nothing I can do to change your mind,” she said seriously. “But tell me at least one thing. Are you planning to dredge up the darkness in these two people’s souls by pushing them to the very brink of their sanity?” 

Decim nodded. “Yes. There is no other way.” 

Her eyes filled with tears. “Remember what I told you all those years ago, Decim,” she said. “People aren’t as complex as you think they are. They get hurt by the simplest things, and act according to those most basic human feelings. They’re irrational, prideful, and flawed, and forcing them to do horrible things doesn’t mean they’re horrible people. Maybe one day, those human emotions in you will be developed enough to begin to understand.” She began to walk away, but was stopped by his hand on her shoulder. 

“I’m afraid this is different,” he said. “There is enough complexity present in these people that I recognize a black and white perspective will not be enough, although severe manipulations are still needed. Along with darkness, I will be trying to uncover light, and I need your help to discern the nuances in between.” 

“You’ve been very unnecessarily vague so far,” she said irritably. “At least tell me who they are.” 

“Makishima Shougo is a mass murderer and enabler of criminals,” he said. “Based on his memories alone, he does not seem to possess the basic human traits of empathy or altruism, and has never shown concern for another human being except in relation to his own selfish ambitions. But you cannot weigh the soul by memories alone. Earlier, I was distracted by emotion, but I recognize now that we must assess his actions, and so far – ” he paused briefly, looking conflicted – ”they have been inconclusive.”

“Leave it to Nona to send us the psychopaths,” she muttered. “What about the girl?” 

“Tsunemori Akane is a former Inspector of the Ministry of Welfare and Public Safety. One of her tasks was capturing Makishima, and she failed to do so many times, causing multiple deaths. In terms of character… she lacks the ability to properly challenge authority, and I would like to see if she has the capacity for violence.” 

“So the typical process for her,” she sighed. “What happened to them?” 

“Makishima was eventually killed, but not before Tsunemori became a victim,” answered Decim. “As you can see, there are some similarities with the detective case, and for those reasons I was tempted to not let you even participate in fear that history will repeat itself. But now I am convinced that I may critically need your human insight, so I will put in a request for you to receive their memories.” 

“I won’t let on any secrets this time,” promised the woman, halfheartedly at best. She tried to sound sincere, but she really wasn’t sure what she would do.

* * *

Decim returned to the game area to announce its commencement; his assistant, shaken by the memories that had recently flooded her brain, had opted to stay behind and recuperate from the shock.

“I apologize for the wait. You may now begin,” said Decim.

The coin having landed in his favor, Makishima stepped forward, his white slip-on shoes silent on the hard floor. His arm formed a right angle with his thin body as he aimed steadily, and his figure bore the momentary semblance of a poised archangel. A speck of light that caught instantaneously on the lustrous surface of his pistol mirrored the little half-smile that crossed his face as he pulled the trigger.

The bullet missed critical areas altogether, striking instead the target’s left shoulder. Akane felt a brief shot of pain on her own left shoulder, and cried out in surprise. The pain was hardly severe, though, and felt more akin to a hard slap than a gunshot wound…

> _“Oi.”_
> 
> _The impact of her Enforcer’s hand on her shoulder jolts her out of a distressing flashback._
> 
> _“I think I know what’s going through your mind right now,” he says._
> 
> _“Kougami-san…”_
> 
> _“But for the time being, let’s just focus on the case in front of us.” His eyes are cold and resolute, and she feels her own resolve rise in response._
> 
> _“Okay,” she says._

“Oops,” said Makishima, grinning. “I slipped.”

Quietly on the sidelines, Decim considered the possibility that it had been a compassionate move. Ten points appeared on the LED screen above Makishima’s target.

Akane stared blankly into space. She wondered how she’d forgotten about Kougami, and considered the possibility that Division 1 had sent in reinforcements, just like when Kougami had been lured into danger. Even if they were, contact was practically impossible without a communication device or a Dominator…

“Are you alright?” Her competitor was suddenly right next to her with his hand on her shoulder, looking oddly solicitous.

“Yeah,” she said. “It didn’t hurt that much. I was just reminded of something – someone.” She shifted away uncomfortably and picked up her gun in both hands. “Someone important.”

“Boyfriend?” asked Makishima casually.

“No – just a colleague.” Akane felt distinctly uneasy as she raised the black weapon to aim.

“Could be both,” he persisted.

“Not him,” she responded. “He’s – ”

> _“Stop!” she screams, and somewhere deep in her brain, a signal travels to the nerves in her fingers, dictating them to contract and pull the trigger. He falls, the distilled aggression on his face frozen in tensed muscle. She watches, stiff with horror. It’s almost as if the paralyzer has affected them both._

Akane squeezed her eyes shut and pressed down hard on the trigger. The shot punctured the center of her target’s torso, and a blinding wave of pain simultaneously tore through Makishima’s body, causing him to gasp and fall over backwards. Watching him doubled over in agony, clutching his spine and breathing heavily, Akane wondered if he regretted his earlier decision to play a painful game.

“I’m fine,” he managed through gritted teeth. “He's what?”

“Oh. Um. He’s – his name’s Kougami Shinya – he’s reckless. Overwhelming. Hard to deal with. It’s nothing, really.” Akane sat down, looking away, hugging her legs.

“Kougami Shinya…” The name floated effortlessly from his lips. “Sounds like someone I’d like to know.”

The first round was now over with Tsunemori Akane in the lead, and while it had been intense, it had provided little to no new information for Decim. The notable exception was the level of concern Makishima had shown to Akane, which Decim interpreted as a virtue. He concluded that this was the optimal time to introduce extreme circumstances that would test the players, and that the first one would serve to corroborate or refute the assumption that Makishima was capable of human empathy.

Decim observed the man drag himself up from the cold floor, stumbling from the blood rush to his head and then reaching for the gun on his belt. The arbiter clicked the button on his remote control, and his assistant stared in horror at the humanoid target in front of Makishima, which now bore a perfectly realistic likeness to Akane.

Makishima stared at it, too. The initially blank puppet had become, he recognized, the physical form of his competitor. It was lifelike, animated, and unsettlingly real. He gathered that the situation had likely been manipulated to induce a gut reaction from the average person, who would hesitate to shoot a living human as opposed to a mannequin. But there was something about the idea of shooting that target that felt not only pleasurable, but also nostalgic…

> _“I wish you guys would just stop insulting us already,” he says quietly. The wheat around them rustles in the gentle wind, obscuring the sound of his voice. He digs his heel deeper into her cheek._

His unhesitant shot hit dead center of the glowing red point on the target’s head, and a torrent of blood and brain burst forth from the compact wound before the target reverted to its indistinct shape. The excruciating impact prompted an agonizing scream from the actual Akane, who felt like her head had just been subject to a Lethal Eliminator. She fell to her knees, clasping her head in her heads, tears welling in her eyes.

“That was so… merciless,” whispered the assistant nervously to Decim.

Decim nodded. “I cannot predict him,” he admitted.

Makishima gazed at the wisps of smoke emerging from the end of his weapon, then at his scoreboard that now displayed seventy points. He smiled, and realized he was enjoying himself immensely.

It took Akane a good few minutes to recover from the overwhelming pain. Decim waited patiently until she stood back up with her feet planted on the ground and her gun held firmly in both her hands. Then, he pressed the remote.

Akane looked at the transformed target in front of her. She’d vowed to steel herself when her turn came, but suddenly she felt very cold, and her throat grew unbearably dry. A memory that felt new yet unnaturally familiar, like a scene from a recurring dream, sprung forth from inaccessibly deep recesses, forcibly overcoming her mind’s eye:

> _“What’s wrong? If you don’t hold the gun steady, you’ll miss me.”_
> 
> _Air fails to find her. Her vision is blurry with tears, hot tears of desperation. She can only hear him, his condescending voice talking down to her, and she can smell Yuki’s blood, from when he had slashed her back…_
> 
> _“Now, aim at me with killing intent,” he says invitingly._
> 
> _Her right arm trembles helplessly as she raises the rifle, a foreign hunk of metal she cannot hope to operate. She holds on stubbornly to the Dominator, and to the increasingly slim chance that the eyes of justice will somehow correct themselves. She hears Yuki’s sobs grow more despondent and squeezes her eyes shut, convincing herself that doing so would help her aim or wake up from a nightmare._
> 
> Miss _, says a voice in the back of her head._ Act like you tried _._
> 
> _A nerve impulse reaches her trigger finger and jerks it inward. She realizes two seconds and two shots too late that she has failed the test, and in doing so sentenced her friend to death._
> 
> _“How regrettable. How very regrettable, Inspector Tsunemori Akane,” she hears._
> 
> _Yuki screams for help. Akane can’t make out the words – suffocating guilt crushes them mid-air. Her legs give beneath her, and a paralyzing horror only now begins to creep over her as she slowly realizes what she has just done, what he has done to her. Triumphant words, pleading cries and the cold lifeless voice of the Dominator reporting a zero value melt into each other in a deafening, formless haze. She feels her own scream escape her mouth and join the oppressive swarm in her head._
> 
> _Then it evaporates, and she is left with the crisp and clear sound of blood splattering on the steel mesh floor._

_How…?_

_How could she have forgotten that?_

She stood there frozen in shock, letting the gun fall from her grasp and clatter onto the floor. She felt herself crumble under her own weight, felt the impact of her knees hitting the floor just like they did in that awful memory. Before she knew it, the man next to her had rushed to her side. She heard, “Are you alright, miss?” and felt his hands gripping her shoulders forcefully.

Nodding insincerely, she made the mistake of looking into his eyes, and was suddenly filled with a profound terror she could not explain. He terrified her – his face, his silhouette, his voice trying to retrieve her from the darkness – and the last place she wanted him to be was near her. She screamed and tore away instinctively from his grasp, her weak legs tangling and stumbling over each other before she fell to the ground again, gasping for air.

“Hey,” she heard him say. “Just stop it, already. You scared her to death. Change it back.”

 _He cares about me,_ she thought hazily. _He’s a good person._ She dimly remembered – or had the urge to remember – something. Something important. Someone?

_How could she have forgotten?_

Decim, who had been watching intently, acknowledged the request discreetly with his remote control.

Forcing herself to her feet with all her energy, Akane looked up hesitantly at the target and was vastly relieved to see that it was once again blank and marked only by point values. She picked up the gun carefully once more, and willed herself to forget about Yuki and the criminal who had escaped judgment. Kougami would want her to focus on the game at hand.

She braced herself, fixated her eyes on the red pulse, and pushed down the trigger with what little strength remained in her fingers. The mild tremble in her aim as she followed through was enough to shift the bullet’s trail downward, and it sunk into the target’s upper neck instead.

Makishima staggered backwards, feeling the burning trajectory of the shot rip through his skull, a sensation that was almost immediately familiar.

> _He sees nothing before him but a sky dyed a deep blood red. He thinks there is no better view to have as one’s last._
> 
> _“Tell me, Kougami,” he says. “When all this is done, will you be able to find a replacement for me?”_
> 
> _Kougami’s words are clipped, feigning certainty. “Well, I sure hope not.”_
> 
> _He smiles serenely. He is at peace. He wishes that the last thing he will remember feeling is the cool night air, and not the bullet piercing his brainstem._

_I’m dead,_ thought Makishima.

He let the realization wash over him like a stream of warm water, let it soak through his clothes and hair, sink into the cracks of his skin and the sulci of his brain. Sitting down in silence, he began to breathe memories of his final days and weeks, which ascertained the identity of the woman he was playing against. For all he knew, she was still unaware of his. It took all of his cognitive resources to stop himself from asking questions about this unearthly location, such as how he was able to breathe, drink, and fire a gun when he unequivocally remembered being shot in the head point blank. If these people – or beings – had felt the need to withhold this information, they obviously had an agenda that could not be uncovered by asinine questioning. For one of the preciously few times in his life – or more precisely, existence, as _he was dead –_ Makishima felt like he was being tested, and in a way that curiously matched his own tastes.

Clearly, it was time to add his own rules to the game.

He stood up slowly and turned to Decim and the woman. “My dear referees,” he said, “I regret to say that I feel physically exhausted, and in poor shape to carry out the concluding round. If you would be so kind as to allow a break for me and my opponent before we finish our game, I would be very grateful.”

Decim and the woman looked at each other. “As you wish,” said Decim, despite the worried look on his partner’s face. “You are our guests. Please make yourself at home.”

“Thank you very much.” Makishima glanced briefly at Akane to gauge her reaction, but she deliberately avoided his gaze.

“I think I’d like one too,” she mumbled to herself, knowing whatever she said didn’t really matter, as her opponent had already stalked off into the corridor and disappeared.


End file.
